


Passing the Time

by Arrestzelle



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drugged Sex, Established Relationship, Feeling B era, Grinding, M/M, Making Out, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:14:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24382642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: Paul and Flake get bored. They smoke weed and have sex.
Relationships: Paul Landers/Christian Lorenz | Flake
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	Passing the Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fouroux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouroux/gifts).



“Man, it’s only shit playing tonight.”

The radio fills the room with static. Jumping from the limited number of stations, Paul eventually settles on a popular pop song. Some recycled, overplayed bullshit. The type of song that has no deeper meaning, a type of song meant to just cram a cheap version of pleasure into your head—the perfect example of socialist censorship. He sighs and trudges back over to the cluttered bed to drop onto it. His knee hits the half-empty bottle of vodka lost in the tangled mess of blankets. He pushes it away with his foot and then sags back into the cluster of pillows. Flake is laying on his side, perched on an elbow, watching the other man with a blank look on his face.

“You don’t like this kind of music? Sometimes it can be catchy… Depending on your mood,” Flake says, reaching up to absentmindedly scratch behind an ear. Paul looks at him, and smiles thinly. He immediately shoots up onto an elbow, turns to face Flake, and wiggles closer. Flake stares at him with wary eyes and a strained smile he fails to completely mask. Paul shrugs.

“It can get repetitive. I don’t want to hear 99 Luftballoons for the thousandth time, thank you.”

Flake snorts. He nods.

“I can agree with that.”

Making a face, Paul scratches at his eye, sighing heavily. He speaks with a sneer and a look of disgust.

“Plus, knowing it had been picked apart and given the stamp of approval dampens the enjoyment for me. I’d rather listen to our screeching than this trash; it’s just masturbation material for GDR officials. So _pure_ and _clean_ to them.”

Flake nods in agreement.

“Then let’s listen to our screeching instead.”

“I’m too lazy to get back up,” Paul sighs, dropping forward limply, cheek meeting Flake’s bicep. Flake stares at Paul’s disastrous, badly-needing-a-wash bleached hair and then turns to the horribly cluttered side table. He grabs the unlit joint from the ashtray absolutely full with cigarette butts, and a near-empty lighter. Paul lifts his head to look at him, watching Flake place the rolled joint between his lips and light up.

“I’m bored,” Flake explains flatly, setting aside the lighter once more. Paul snorts. He nods and sits up a little straighter with a noisy creak of their shitty bed. Flake takes a drag, brow furrowed. He squints at Paul past his round glasses, handing the joint over. Paul smirks faintly, taking it.

“Aw, Flake, you shouldn’t have.”

He takes a deeper drag, and then flops back down against the pillows beside the other man. Flake watches him. Exhaling the burst of smoke, Paul drops his hand wielding the cigarette against his lap, his legs outstretched and crossed. He’s wearing his gray sweatpants, joined by an old sweater with an atrocious pattern. It has holes along the sleeve, Flake notices. Loose thread at the cuff.

“Where’d you find this?” Flake asks, reaching out to tug at the sleeve. Paul drops his gaze to his arm, and then meets Flake’s with a thin smile.

“In a box back home. I think it was my mom’s.”

“Oh. Explains why it looks like shit.”

Paul laughs sharply and punches Flake in the arm—Flake grins, and immediately shoves him back. Paul catches himself on his elbow, exclaiming, “Hey! I got the lit joint here!”

“Give it back then!” Flake huffs, reaching for it. Paul rolls his eyes with a slight smile and passes it back to Flake’s waiting fingers.

For the next twenty minutes, they remain slumped in bed, listening to awful music on the radio while smoking through this joint, _and_ the second one (half-smoked already) hidden inside a small jewelry box in the side table drawer. They begin throwing small, wadded up pieces of paper at the shelf of empty liquor bottles across the room, in hopes of somehow threading the needle and sinking one in. They give up after a stupidly ridiculous amount of attempts, their bedroom carpet now sufficiently covered in tiny balls of paper.

The second joint is completely smoked, and they’re left giggling together, shoulder to shoulder, gossiping about this and that, exchanging a series of would you rather’s, and debating whether or not they should run to the store just to pick up a new pack of cigarettes and some food. They decide to lay there instead of making the effort, an agreement established by childish squabbling and a succeeding silence. Eventually, Paul flips onto his side, facing Flake. Once again, he wiggles closer, close enough his knees rest against Flake’s thigh. Chin propped up in his hand, Paul smiles at him dazedly with hooded eyes and warm cheeks. Flake stares back, head foggy and eyes narrowed.

“You know, we could make out right now,” Paul muses with a coy grin curling at his lips, his whispered words overlapped by the talking of the DJ on the radio, “Aljoscha is gone, we’re not expecting him or anyone else to be back soon…”

Flake swallows hard. He’s not wrong. They often have to find times like this to squeeze in a make-out session and a quick round of sex laced with the underlying fear of being caught. Paul’s grin widens, seeing the redness that blooms in Flake’s face. Flake swallows hard.

“Yeah, okay,” he eloquently mutters, sluggishly moving to sit up a little more, propped up on his elbows. He looks at Paul with slow-blinking eyes and a shy half-smile. Paul beams. He wiggles closer, and rests his arm across Flake’s chest, hand raising to cup his cheek. He searches Flake’s boyish face, his grin softening to a warm, almost dreamy smile. He strokes his thumb over his cheek, along hot skin and across a couple moles. He leans in, head angling. Flake closes his eyes. Paul’s mouth crushes firmly against his own.

Lips wet and full, Paul kisses him in long, deep pushes of his mouth, the incriminating sound of doing so hidden by the upbeat melody of another obnoxious radio hit. Flake feels heat burst throughout his body. He kisses him back, lips heavy and lazy. Paul’s mouth is so nice… So warm, and so soft. Flake dazedly thinks it belongs right here, against his own.

The kiss seems to last forever. Flake feels that hand on his cheek slide further back, cupping the side of his head, fingers outstretched in bleached blonde locks, thumb laying across his cheekbone. Flake’s head is a foggy disaster, losing sense of reality now that he’s heavily making out with his boyfriend. Forgetting where they are—no longer hearing the music playing, nor worrying about being discovered.

Paul is humming into it now. He mashes his mouth deeply against Flake’s, who in turn isn’t quite as confident, but he is eager to keep up. Their lips overlap continuously, passionately—with no end in sight, not when possibilities are endless. Flake tastes Paul’s tongue. Easing his lips apart, for Flake to emerge from his shell and return the deepening kiss. Their lips remain locked, tongues sliding together in a wet, vulgar dance that leaves Flake grunting with a knitting brow and a burning hot face. Paul’s exhales are puffing against his skin, the hunger evident even in just that sound.

And when they break apart, finally, they’re left panting. Paul, Flake realizes, is now partially laying atop him. And he is hard. He can feel his stiff cock nestled up close to his thigh, through Paul’s sweatpants and Flake’s boxers.

“F-Flake,” Paul breathes, earning a hazy look from aroused eyes. Paul’s thumb is stroking over his cheek again. Those enigmatic gray eyes are boring into his. He leans in to rub his nose along Flake’s. Flake swallows hard. Paul continues softly, almost pleadingly.

“Can you suck my dick? I’ll return the favor, promise.”

Flake’s stomach caves in from the punch of arousal he gets from that. He nods shakily, nose skimming against Paul’s. Paul grins and pecks him quickly—so suddenly, Flake cannot even begin to respond.

Getting up, Paul then grabs an armful of pillows, which was not expected. Flake’s bewilderment to _why_ he’s grabbing the pillows is soon laid to rest: Paul throws them on the floor, arranges them into a little nest, and then gets comfortably seated on the edge of the bed. He points to the pillows and bats his eyelashes at Flake.

“Well, don’t you know exactly what you want,” Flake mutters. Paul grins and points forcefully at the pillows. Flake huffs. He gets up—and immediately feels disoriented. He collapses forward onto his hands, head knocking into Paul’s bicep. Paul bursts out a laugh and curls an arm around Flake’s back, hand meeting his messy blonde hair. He ruffles his hair and muses, “C’mon, don’t pass out on me!”

Flake snorts a laugh. He pushes his forehead into Paul’s bicep, mumbling, “You just want me to suck you off, you brat.”

“Maaaybe. But I’ll be patient.”

Flake shakes his head against Paul’s arm and then sluggishly crawls off the bed, onto the nicely arranged pile of pillows Paul oh-so-thoughtfully put together for his knees. Flake looks at him with a shy frown. Even when kneeling on the floor before him, Flake is going to have to bend his back quite a bit just to reach between his thighs. Paul spreads them, feet placed apart. Flake huffs. He stares, blushing, at the protruding tent in his sweatpants made by his obvious boner.

Thankfully, Flake has become a bit more accustomed to this, considering he and Paul have been dating for nearly two years now. He reaches up to run his big hands along those slim thighs—his hands are made heavy by his intoxicated state. He stares, watching them glide across the gray fabric, along Paul’s thighs, and finds himself a bit awed that he gets to touch him like this. He still feels a bit out of it. He’s not sure how well he’ll be performing oral, really. But he’ll entertain Paul, at least.

Bringing one hand in, he cups it around the bulge in his sweatpants and squeezes firmly. Paul trembles, huffing. His hands are resting on the bed beside his thighs, motionless. Obviously, he’s just waiting. Typically, Paul is impatient and pulls his pants down before Flake can even warm up to it.

But it seems Flake can ease into it this time. He fondles his hard cock through his sweatpants. Rubbing the flat width of his palm along the stiff shaft, his other hand squeezing tight around his skinny thigh. Paul is shuddering already, eyes hooded and trained on him shamelessly. Flake shifts a little closer between his spread knees. He slides his hand in-between his legs to push his thighs further apart. Paul readjusts his feet on the floor, planting them further apart to allow more room.

Leaning in, Flake nuzzles into the bulge with his mouth and nose, smelling him now. Paul’s hips jolt. He grunts under his breath. Flake thinks he heard his name, breathed in a hushed whimper past the music playing, but he’s not sure. Flake begins mouthing at the head through his sweatpants, though he’s not sure if this is even doing anything for Paul. He feels kind of stupid doing it, so he decides to move on.

Sitting back, Flake takes his glasses off, looks at Paul meekly with a suppressed, embarrassed half-smile and mutters, “Pull your pants down.”

Paul seems eager to do so. Even if a bit sluggish and clumsy from his own state, Paul wiggles his sweatpants down—he isn’t wearing underwear. His cock springs up, sizeable in comparison to the rest of him. Flake _is_ bigger, but Paul’s cock is just as impressive. Flake stares at it; it’s flushed pink, stiff but not rock hard yet. It’s really cute for a dick, actually. The pink head is just peeking out past the foreskin. Paul has always had fairer hair on some parts of his body. The hair around the base of his cock is dark, but further south is a nice layer of softer hair that Flake previously found himself liking the feel of, when he fondles his balls.

Pulling Flake from his staring, Paul curls those slim fingers around the base of his dick, his ring and pinky fingers extended to rest over his balls.

“Please,” he murmurs almost drunkenly, angling his cock out to entice Flake. Flake swallows hard. He silently works Paul’s sweatpants further down those slim thighs, exposing more skin and freckles. Once he manages to work them all the way down, enough for him to reposition himself between his legs, Flake strokes his big hands along his thighs, and then curls them comfortably around his hips. Paul continues holding his dick, waiting. Leaning in, Flake licks at the tip—he tastes his pre-cum, a sharpness on his tongue. Paul grunts. A hand curls into Flake’s bleached hair.

“More,” Paul breathes, “In your mouth, Flake, come on. Stop teasing me.”

“So impatient,” Flake huffs, but he has always been the kid, and now the man, that would do almost anything to please Paul, even if it was the most outrageous demand. He sucks the head into his mouth; Paul pulls back his foreskin with his fist, and hums in low pleasure. He grips a loose fistful of Flake’s hair.

“There you go,” Paul gasps, “Like that. God, yes.”

Flake’s ears are burning. He knows Paul can see it—he always pointed it out afterwards, the jerk. Just to embarrass him.

He refocuses; he widens his mouth and takes more of his cock into his mouth, feeling the head push further back, over his tongue. He wraps his lips around the midway point and sucks harshly. He tastes… Weirdly good, in his own _Paul_ way. Flake has gotten accustomed to the taste of his boyfriend’s dick, and at first he found it gross—considering Paul had been his first boyfriend ever, and he wasn’t exactly fond of the taste or feeling of a dick in his mouth. But now, it’s not so bad. He likes pleasing him this way.

“Mmm… That’s good,” Paul breathes, and then the fist around the base of his shaft slips away. Instead, it relocates in Flake’s hair. Flake silently enjoys the touch. Paul maintains loose handfuls of Flake’s bleached hair and watches with an agape mouth and hooded eyes as the younger man began to move his head. The sucking sound of him doing so pierces through the noise of the radio. It’s loud and wet, embarrassing but arousing.

Furrowing his brow, Flake attempts to focus on his technique, despite his muddled state of mind. He just wants _more_ —to please Paul more, to feel his cock harden in his mouth, to withdraw more of those delicious sounds from his undeniably greedy boyfriend. But, he’s beginning to notice how passive Paul is being. Usually he thrusts a little, or asks him to do this or that, essentially guiding him through it. But now, he’s just sitting there with his legs spread far, hands in his hair, moaning and gasping without moving his hips. Flake feels in control for once.

Eyes clenching shut, Flake opens his mouth wider to welcome more of his shaft into his mouth. He cautiously forces his head down, until the head of his cock is passing into his throat. It always feels like he’s being choked. Mouth stuffed with his dick, throat barely accepting this breach of comfort—he’s suffocating. But Paul’s deep, guttural moan makes it worth it.

Flake is coughing now, cheeks a stark red, brow tightly knit. He manages to carefully bob his head a few times, letting his cock slide into his throat, until his body hits the brink and he’s choking around him. He pulls off, panting hard. He peeks up at him. Paul is watching with dazed eyes, flushed cheeks, his bottom lip between his teeth. Flake stares. He can be so damn cute sometimes.

The hands in his hair pull a little bit. Flake ducks his head back down. He takes just the head back into his mouth at first. Sucking firmly, he pulls at it in long drags—Paul gasps so harshly, it earns Flake’s gaze. He glances up at him, sees the _weakest_ expression of pleasure on his face. His eyes are closed, head tipped back slightly, his mouth slightly open in awed ecstasy. A jolt of arousal shoots through Flake’s gut. He squirms on his knees, bringing one hand down to squeeze his cock through his boxers.

“Keep going,” Paul murmurs, opening his eyes again to look at him pleadingly. Flake nods.

Sucking more of his cock back into his mouth, Flake takes half and then stops. Holding it there, he begins sucking harshly again, cheeks hollowing around him. Pre-cum is salty on his tongue. He can feel Paul’s shaft flex, straining in his mouth, blood roaring under flushed skin. Paul is moaning. Flake is so hard, he can’t stop himself from repeatedly groping at his cock. Caught in the dazed sauna of his drugged mind, Flake finds himself extremely turned on, a state amplified more so than usual. He becomes so distracted touching himself, his sucking turns weaker—but he notices once Paul’s noises die down, and he sits there silently.

Readjusting himself on his knees, Flake begins moving his head again. He sucks harshly, letting his cock slide back and forth in his tightly closed mouth. Paul’s dick is so hard against his tongue. Pulsating, even. Flake can _feel_ his arousal. Paul is grunting and gasping and whimpering. His hands are roaming through Flake’s hair. The embarrassingly vulgar sound of Flake sucking him off fills the room, unfiltered and totally incriminating. Paul is releasing the most naughty sounds, so desperate and pleasured that Flake is getting quite restless, shifting on the floor as he can barely listen to this without wanting to jump Paul’s bones more than he already is.

Flake opens his mouth wider, works more into his mouth—he’s driven to please him. He wants to make him come. Paul’s legs are quivering on either side of him. He feels Paul’s feet curling in, digging into his folded legs. His hands are tight in his hair, to a point of pain, but Flake hardly acknowledges it. Instead, he becomes extremely aware of the way Paul’s cock is flexing against his tongue, wedged into his throat. Paul is huffing and panting, harsh and loud, while Flake continuously works his mouth over his shaft, unrelenting suction and without falter. And then Paul is grunting loudly. A deep, guttural groan that rises into a gasp, soon followed by his rushed speaking—a desperate, breathless warning.

“Coming, F-Flake, coming— _coming! Co-Com—!_ ”

He goes silent, grunting tightly in his throat. Flake pulls back just in time, before he’d get a shot of cum down his throat. Instead, it floods his mouth. Sharp and pungent in taste, Paul’s cock flexes, shooting his load into Flake’s sucking mouth. Flake is grimacing slightly, brow knit. He always hated the texture of it. The taste he can bear, but it’s like getting a mouthful of mucus based on texture alone. But he knows how much Paul likes it.

Paul is gasping and moaning now, breathless and shockingly loud. His entire body is jolting, legs closing around Flake, his hips rocking slightly, working his pulsating cock into Flake’s mouth in quick, short thrusts.

“Shit!” Paul exclaims then. He keeps his hips suspended, quivering wildly, raised just enough to keep his cock in Flake’s mouth for a moment longer, and then he’s collapsing back against the bed. A faint grimace on his face, Flake just swallows down his semen to get it over with. He wipes his mouth off on his hand. He looks up to see Paul resting back on his elbows, face dazed and flushed a red, eyes hooded and weak. Flake bites his lip, unsure where to go from here. Paul laughs breathlessly, looking down at him—regaining clarity. He sits up again, sighing heavily.

“Jeez. You’ve gotten good,” he says a bit too happily, leaning over to work his bunched sweatpants off his ankles. Flake blushes. He frowns, embarrassed, reaching up to scratch at the bridge of his nose. Paul smiles at him, knowingly.

“Come on up. You can rub against me—don’t wanna deal with anything else, to be honest. But I know you like that, too, so…”

Flake huffs. He rises to stand, saying with defensive embarrassment, “Oh, how kind of you.”

Paul laughs. Without addressing it, Paul promptly removes his sweater, throws it aside, and then flips over onto his stomach. He scoots a little higher up over the bed and looks over his shoulder at Flake with a cocked brow. Flake stares at his cute ass, and then meets Paul’s amused gaze.

“Grab the lube,” Paul says, “Make it nice and wet.”

“Ew, don’t just go out and say it like that,” Flake complains with a groan and a grimace, slapping his hand over his face. Paul laughs again.

“Just hurry up! You don’t want to pass on this, right?”

Without a word, burning up, Flake turns to the side table. He digs out the discreet, unlabeled bottle of lube from under a rumpled shirt, which may or may not have been designated as their cum rag. Flake is silent and impatient as he steps out of his boxers, his stiff cock springing out from its confinement. He’s very hard—it stands tall, a very blatant announcement of his eagerness. He can _feel_ Paul’s stare. Flake sighs, climbing onto the creaky bed, and gets situated over Paul’s legs.

Kneeling over his calves, Flake takes a second to squeeze some lube out into his hand. He strokes it over himself, and then reaches out to shyly wipe the remainder between Paul’s asscheeks. Paul shifts, and spreads his thighs a little more. He’s watching over his shoulder. Flake purposefully doesn’t meet his eyes as he shifts higher up on the bed, atop the other man. Paul is smiling all peachy keen when Flake dares to peek at him.

“Wish it wasn’t such a hassle to do anal,” Paul comments with a sigh, “’Cause I like it when you fuck me, but God, it’s so annoying dealing with it.”

Flake’s face is on fire. He reaches up to nervously scratch at his ear, as he often does. He nods a little, made speechless by his flustered state. Paul snickers and wiggles his legs a little further apart. Shown to him is Paul’s softening cock pinned to the bed, and his balls. Flake lets out a deep breath, staring. He decides he’s quite done with stalling.

Adjusting himself higher up over Paul, Flake is careful to avoid crushing him as he aligns his hips with his ass. His cock nestles into the crevice made by those perfectly round asscheeks. It’s wet and warm here. Paul reaches back to stroke a hand over Flake’s lean thigh. He doesn’t say anything. Flake feels fuzzy all over still, his fingers tingling, face and body warm. He’s not sure if it’s from the weed, or his arousal.

He begins shyly rocking his hips. Wide-eyed, he watches his slick cock slide back and forth between Paul’s asscheeks. Flake grunts under his breath. It’s not just the sensation—it’s feeling, and seeing, his shaft grind against Paul’s entrance, where he’d _really_ like to push into, but can’t. It’s quite a dirty thing to do, rubbing against it like this, but that’s what makes it so good. Paul knows that. Flake feels a bit like an animal, really, doing something as vulgar as this.

Paul reaches out to grab one of the pillows, tucking it under himself to rest upon it comfortably. He then speaks in an amused murmur, saying, “Feels good for me, too, Flake. Do it a little harder.”

Grunting under his breath in acknowledgement, Flake obliges. He clenches his hands into fists against the bed, and begins earnestly grinding down into him. The bed creaks in return. It’s stupidly noisy, easily heard past the radio. If Aljoscha stopped by, even without bursting into the room, he’d be able to tell what’s going on. The breathless grunts and harsh breathing bursting forth from Flake’s lungs emerges without a filter. He’s being as loud as Paul was earlier. The bed is relentless, producing a low, creaking sound born from the old wooden frame. Even Paul is releasing soft moans of pleasure himself. They’ve always been shitty at being stealthy, but at least they’ve lucked out so far.

Flake watches his reddened cock thrust up between Paul’s asscheeks, wet and shiny from the lube. It feels so good. He’s becoming so warm, all over, essentially humping Paul into the bed without much grace. The pleasure winding and winding up in his belly is already making its way steadily towards the finish line.

Flake pans his gaze up along Paul’s smooth, freckled back. His ponytail is a tangled mess against his sweaty shoulder blade, the hairband coming unraveled. His hands are clutched around the pillow. He’s pushing his ass back into it, hips raised. Flake drops his head again, if only to watch himself jerk his pelvis down against Paul.

The deeply flushed, leaking head of his cock is grinding into the wet skin just above the swell of his asscheeks. His shaft rubs along the length of Paul’s taint and asshole in such a delicious way, Flake is beginning to fall apart after just three minutes of this continuous thrusting. He’s panting hard, sweat pouring down his flushed skin, his legs and arms trembling from strain. The white-hot pleasure is coming to its apex, twisting and turning and _exploding_ in his belly—

The bed’s creaking becomes explosive as Flake hungrily, roughly thrusts against Paul, shoving his hips into his ass, which in turn has Paul groaning in approval, pushing back into it just as hard. And then Flake is snarling, breath hitching, his throat flexing, eyes squeezing shut, teeth bared. His cock flexes between Paul’s wet asscheeks, shooting ropes of cum up over the small of his back. Flake is shaking violently, chest heaving. He gives five more shaky, jarring snaps of his hips, mindless and blindingly desperate.

And then he stops, resting atop the other man, body trembling, chest heaving as he gasps for air. Paul is panting, too. When Flake cracks his eyes open, he sees Paul now propped up on his elbows, looking back at the cum that’s covering his skin.

“Man, that was hot,” Paul laughs, amused eyes flicking up to meet Flake’s, a grin on his face. “You’re so cute when you get all horny. Now I really wish I committed, and let you fuck me for real.”

“God—“ Flake gasps breathlessly, collapsing beside him on the bed with a final groan of the wooden frame, “Shut up, Paul. I’m gonna kick you off the bed if you keep saying embarrassing crap like that.”

Paul snickers. He immediately scoots closer and nuzzles into Flake’s sweaty neck, nose and smiling lips skimming along the flexing tendons, up to his ear. Flake huffs. He turns onto his side, facing Paul, and drapes his arm around his back tenderly. Paul hums happily. He hides his face in Flake’s heaving chest.

Made equally exhausted by the haze of the marijuana and the sex, they both pass out for a much needed nap soon after moving into a suitable spooning position—of course, only after Paul rose to switch the radio off with great irritation.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in an hour and a half so if some parts are shitty, you know why lol
> 
> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


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